


You told me you were a werewolf

by afullrevolution



Series: Tell me what Pack Means [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Space, Engineer!Derek, IN SPACE!, M/M, Pilot!Stiles, Slow Build, Stiles!POV, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afullrevolution/pseuds/afullrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fourteen days into a two year mission, Stiles finds out that his companion for the voyage is a werewolf. Stiles wants to know what it <i>means</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You told me you were a werewolf

**Author's Note:**

> Rating for language. Not beta'd. No surprises on either of those.
> 
> Total AU, not canon compliant. Associated changes when you completely alter the story.

“Seriously? You waited until we’re alone on the ship and fourteen day-cycles out to tell me that you’re a werewolf?” Stiles hung from the ceiling, legs hooked through a rail to keep himself from floating. He was sucking on a eucalyptus drop. He noticed that it kept hitting his teeth as he talked, clicking slightly and forcing him to make small but continual sucking sounds so he didn’t drool into the air. Floating spit was never fun. But, shit, he loved the sugared drops, loved how the oils and sweetness managed to taste fresher and crisper than any of the other crap food they would be eating for the next two years if everything went according to plan.

“I didn’t think” Derek said between clenched teeth, barely moving his jaw “that is would be this much of an issue.” Stiles thought what Derek was doing might count as ‘gritted out’. Stiles cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at Derek’s jaw, considering the technicalities. Derek wasn’t actually grinding his teeth at all so ‘gritting’ seemed appropriate. 

Either way, Derek’s face looked furious, as if he hated having to share this little bit of himself. Or maybe it was just the words. Stiles knew that Derek didn’t like sharing words.

“Let me see if I get this” Stiles unhooked his legs and flipped himself over, let the momentum carry him down until they were looking at each on level. “You acquired a ship requiring two individuals, accepted a contract for a two-year run, selected me as your pilot because the personnel register scores said that we would be compatible, then actually met me – and still didn’t know until now that you’d have to fess up?

“We did the bunk test man! How could you not know?” Stiles pointed toward their current sleeping bunks. Which were almost exactly the same as the bunks from the test. 

Stiles had, somewhere along the line, grown to love this particular ship model’s bunks. He swore (had sworn to Derek) he could climb into one completely tense and his body just melted into a gooey, comfortable mess of relaxation. Complete Pavlovian response, he knew. His father had all but stored him in a similar bunk during his childhood. They had better uplinks now and, shit, it was like having a world at his fingertips, one that responded to the way be moved his eyes.

It was why he had become a pilot. That feeling of control under his fingers, at the flick of his eyes, of being able to make things happen without having to go anywhere. He adored the inflated sense of importance it gave and loved the temporary sense of seamlessness, of being part of something. Granted, not part of something human. 

But fuck, these ships. Stiles thought they were so very beautiful. The lines of them, the engineering that went into them. They were the product of generations of evolution. 

And Stiles liked to think that they responded so well to him because they were just a bit more sentient than the company who turned them out claimed. It always seemed that the ships he touched knew how much he cared.

But while the ships were so easy to get on with, screw the people man. His official profile suggested that he was a bit of an idiot savant there. He could work well with and for what he respected, but he was too smart to respect many an individual – the organic kind at least – and captains just didn’t like it when you told them that you were unwilling to sacrifice the ship for the people inside or for the profit margin. 

His scores were always incredible and his performance impeccable, as long as they rated his actions on his goals and not the captains’. He just didn’t always turn out the results they told him to. Not when he saw a better option. 

So after the fiasco with Captain Martin and her crew, he’d ended up on the register again and – somehow – been paired with Captain Derek Hale for a two-person mission. You had to have high compatibility scoring for that. 

Stiles had once heard of Derek in academy, but never seen him in person. Not before they met for in-person trials. The performance and stylus-based tests were all well and good, but people were tricky. There was often that last quirk and snitch to iron out between individuals, things that might make it inadvisable to be in the same room for two years running. Such fine lines to cross. Particularly when you were looking at working in pairs or small groups for hopefully years on end. And with limited guarantees of contact to anyone outside. 

But the two of them had synched during testing. They had done all right enclosed in the confined test space while working on their interim projects. 

Stiles had talked endlessly, slightly unnerved without a ship around him and controls at his fingertips. But he had been thrilled at the newest updates the company had made to their AIs and to the internal bunk environment and he told Derek his full opinions on every change. As well as about how they were like little holo-decks from that old show his grandpa had watched during the one summer he spent on the space station. 

Derek had seemed to be fine sitting there, working on whatever shit he had going, saying almost nothing. His heart rate had certainly remained stable and his breathing levels normal.

And shit if Stiles didn’t find his face one of the most expressive he had ever seen. If Stiles just took the time to stare at Derek, then he could read the fluid lines of communication Derek used, the expressive tics and sounds. It was like watching a wildlife documentary of one of those gorgeous creatures without vocal cords or a larynx. They had a world of poetry inside them, they just couldn’t put it into words. The limited use of words didn’t mean they couldn’t converse. 

Not that Stiles had ever had the chance to see those animals in person. He heard that there was nothing like it. That the associated tactile sensations were something worth experiencing. Stiles thought that images and sound alone were astounding, but one of his long-term goals was to find out what real fur felt like. Probably a cloud-castle, but man. He might make it happen. Who knew what the next horizon held?

Stiles liked to imagine that talking to those creatures would be like speaking to the ship. That they never really said anything back in words that weren’t preprogrammed, but my stars, could they communicate with every rumble and creak.

Derek, instead of creaking, had this tiny hum in the back of his throat when he was happy. He made a huffing sound when he was amused. There were worlds of nuance among his sounds and Stiles loved capturing the variety. He already had a set started and cataloged in his personal drive. 

Stiles even thought that pissy growl Derek made during their test days was fantastic. That one he had produced while he was working, hunched over the opened control boxes of their bunks, as Stiles had chatted at him from his position lying on his stomach, waving his legs back and forward. 

Stiles wondered if Derek had come from one of those back-to-nature households. One of those groups that had actual, authentic plants in their living rooms, perhaps even pets sharing their living space. If he had, Stiles hoped that Derek would tell him about it someday. Because video, however many levels it had, never compared to actual experience. 

Stiles had never had a pet beyond his personal tablet. It had run the standard childhood affection program and he had adored the exploration companion. He’d spent more time with it than anything else, what with his father working and the small crew always busy. 

But Derek had siblings – three sisters in fact. His file said that Derek had started out as an engineer under one of his sister’s command. First her promotion and then his were the reasons Derek was now on for his own ship with his own missions. It was theoretically possible that after a few missions run, his sister might make admiral. Stiles thought based on her files she certainly seemed skillful – and ruthless – enough. He also thought that the way the two were trying to build their careers was deigned to advance an eventual reconvergance. 

It was all supposition, however, because Stiles had only ever asked one question about Derek’s family. The answering growl had been among the ones that indicated displeasure and Stiles backed off that line of inquiry. 

So, all Stiles had were the records and files of Derek’s classes, his career path, and the requisite tiny bit about his past. Not that Stiles’ own files weren’t that much better. There just wasn’t that much to say in the official record about growing up in the middle of a small space ship that supported a minimum patrol crew. 

It was where Stiles had learned to love the emptiness of space and the fullness of a network. It was why he appreciated Spartan efficiency and the ability pull your own weight and respect that other people would pull theirs. 

Which was part of why Stiles liked Derek. His way with engines and wires fit so neatly next to Stiles skill with systems. He loved that Derek didn’t feel the need to belittle his talents, didn’t talk himself up. He might demand allegiance, but he earned it to. Stiles might stare, but he approved of what he saw, appreciated that Derek had talents surpassing Stiles’ with those machines. 

Stiles had labeled Derek the physical to Stiles’ intellectual. He had heard theories about yin and yang and decided that it fit them. He’d told Derek that ages ago during testing and gotten a snort in return. The snort that indicated personal amusement and general disagreement at the entire concept, but pleasure at the concept. 

Yes, Derek had a wealth of responses. 

So Stiles might have become a little attached, gotten a little affectionate. And Derek had never told Stiles to stop, never shown any aversion as Stiles drifted closer into his personal space. He might never have touched him in return, but when Stiles leaned against him, Derek made that slight vibration in his throat, a humming growl almost. Stiles wasn’t really sure what to call it, but he loved hearing it. 

So Stiles figured if Derek wasn’t going to touch him, then he would do it for the both of them. He crossed more and more of those lines that he heard existed. Last night when Derek had sat in the middle of the bunk and activated a film, Stiles had spread himself across Derek’s back and shoulders, arms around his neck and chin tucked over his left shoulder so he could see. Because, fuck, his body was warm and Stiles thought that organic heat was fascinating. Derek had claimed he wasn’t sick the first time Stiles had asked, said that his base body temperature just ran higher. 

It had never occurred to Stiles until now that Derek might run warm because he was a werewolf. He had never even considered that Derek might be a werewolf, mainly because Stiles hadn’t known until Derek’s begrudging confession that werewolves existed at all. 

It was a fascinating prospect and Stiles had so many questions. 

The first of which was why Derek had decided to tell him now. He asked a second time, enjoying the question. 

“You keep touching me.” 

“Yeeees.” Stiles agreed, drawing out the ‘e’. He thought it might be his favorite letter for the day, he liked how tasted it on his tongue, but it bore further consideration. “Reputed studies have said that physical contact is healthy. And we both enjoy it. So, why not? It’s supposed to keep us a little bit saner after all.” 

“It's” Derek got that expression Stiles personally labeled as his shifty look, “how you touch me. You treat me like we're pack.” Derek swallowed and Stiles wondered if his throat had gone dry, if he should get him a drink-pack “It makes me want to treat you like pack.”

Stiles considered the prospect. He didn't really know what wolves did to pack and decided did not know how werewolves behaved. He had watched a documentary on wolves once, but had been distracted by wondering about the snow. Everything had looked so crowded as it fell. There was no comforting emptiness to look into and Stiles had wanted to know what they did when they needed to breath. 

“You” Stiles finally said “are going to have to be more specific.” 

Derek let out an aggrieved sigh, gestured out his hand, clenched it into a fist. Stiles wrapped his hand around Derek’s bicep to calm him, to show him everything was all right. “That, that right there” Derek told him “you, you use gestures just as much as words. You touch me constantly and not just those ‘human’ things. You tuck yourself around me, you expose your weak points constantly” and Derek actually reached out, ran two fingers across the line just above Stiles’ hip bone and then up his jugular. Stiles let his eyes drift shut and tilted his head back. 

Derek breathed out in frustration. Stiles looked at him again, wondering if he would begin twitching. He seemed at some sort of end. As if there was something he was stopping himself from. 

Stiles wanted to know what exactly Derek needed, what he trying to communicate this time. Perhaps the problem was the words. Stiles leaned forward “You’re going to have to show what it means to treat someone like pack, because I don’t have experience with that. But it’s not likely that I’ll mind whatever you want to do. I trust you.”

Stiles watched Derek’s pupils dilate.

**Author's Note:**

> Strange to say, but there are no flowers in this one.


End file.
